


Brugmansia

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-09 16:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11108715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thranduil isn’t pleased when he discovers who shares his soul mark.





	1. Mandala

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shyravenns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyravenns/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for pyrooma’s “Soulmark thrandir with Thranduil being an ass to Lindir bc he's lowborn/plain then eventually he falls in love with him and makes up for it (bonus hurt/confused Lindir)” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/161379570810/au-prompt-list). Rating is for later chapters. (They won’t be that long or intense, sorry.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Thranduil meets the Imladris delegation at the entrance to his halls, with servants flooding about him already taking horses and packs. Thranduil waits, standing tall with his staff in hand, more for the stature it gives him than any support. The travelers look weary, as they would, being from softer lands and out of practice in practical skill. Legolas is amidst the guards that flank them. Tauriel reports they were met halfway and escorted through, but a few still bear scratches or spider webs in their hair. It’s a wonder such people ever survive these trips.

Never the less, Thranduil’s waited here, in the central chamber beyond the grand doors to the bridge outside. Most guests he prefers to meet upon his throne, but with Elrond, such ceremonies have grown tired, and it’s a good excuse for Thranduil to stretch his legs. He’d never admit it aloud, but lounging in his towering seat day after day can, occasionally, grow tedious.

He sees Elrond amidst the commotion, still standing by his horse and speaking with one of his advisors—Erestor, Thranduil thinks, though he’s never made much effort to remember the names of lesser elves. Elrond is the only one of importance that Thranduil can see, and indeed, one of the only few Imladris has. Círdan hasn’t come with him, and Glorfindel’s telltale golden hair is missing form the sea of browns and blacks. In the interest of not plowing through the common crowd, Thranduil waits at the edge of it for the hubbub to clear.

Before it has, a single servant pushes through. Most are milling from horses to side corridors, carrying packs away to guest quarters and stables where needed. Only one heads directly forward, out to the end of the grand hall where Thranduil stands. 

The young elf is only that: a trim, plain thing, with long, dark hair brushed back over his shoulders, devoid of any braids. His robes are a deep blue and lacking any ornament, save the circlet around his forehead that Elrond, for reasons Thranduil’s never understood, permits his lessers to wear. This elf might be the personal attendant that Thranduil has intermittently seen at Elrond’s side, or just as easily may not; he’s never paid much attention to such unimportant things.

When the elf stops right before him, Thranduil assumes it’s bearing formal introductions, though Elrond appears not yet to have noticed him and needs none. The elf dips low into a respectful bow, his delicate hands clasped before him and his silken locks spilling over his shoulders. When he rights himself again, his gaze remains lowered, as it should. Even Thranduil’s servants rarely dare speak directly to him; they report to either Tauriel or Galion, depending on their section. This one murmurs quietly, “Your grace, I... I have something I wish to speak with you about. If... if I may.” His voice, Thranduil will begrudgingly admit, has a pleasant timber to it, but though the words are laden with manners and reverence, they’re still out of turn.

So Thranduil coldly replies, “I do not hold council with presumptuous servants.”

The young elf’s face pinches together in obvious hurt, which is just as well; he’s earned it for himself. But he doesn’t look particularly surprised, nor does he argue. He bows again and breathes, “I am terribly sorry, my king.” And then he turns and practically runs back into the foray, curiously gluing himself to Elrond’s side. 

Elrond is still speaking with his advisor. By the time he finally approaches Thranduil, the other elf has disappeared, and Thranduil makes a mental note to speak to Elrond about his impetuous underlings at a later time.

* * *

It isn’t until the evening meal that Thranduil has a chance to mention such idle subjects—Elrond spent far too much time at rest, and when he finally emerges for the feast, he still has the indecency to look weary. Thranduil attributes it to mortal blood but still ushers him to the head table, his seat set at Thranduil’s side. The rest fall into place, and the wine is served, the first course following. The wide dining hall is lined with tables, candles strung high about the walls to wash the audience in a warm yellow-orange glow. As Galion fills Thranduil’s plate with salad, Thranduil drawls, “By the way, Elrond, you really must train your servants better.”

Elrond lifts a brow, face not amused, but he so rarely is. When Galion sets the bowl down, Elrond serves himself. “I had been meaning to speak to you of that, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh? Shall I lend you one of my staff to conduct this training?” Galion stands faithfully behind him, indeed ready to do anything Thranduil should order, including face temporary banishment to Imladris. But Thranduil would send someone else, of course; _all_ of his staff are better behaved, and there’s no need to lose his personal butler, even for only a short while.

Instead of accepting the generous offer, Elrond answers, “Actually, I believe it is you in need of some lessons. Particularly on manners.” 

Thranduil nearly chokes on his wine. He quickly sets the glass down, turning a stern eye towards his guest— _no one_ should speak to him like that, lord or no. But, as usual, Elrond appears irritatingly unperturbed by Thranduil’s piercing gaze and continues, “I heard how you spoke to my Lindir, and I must tell you, I was not pleased to hear of your cruelty.”

Thranduil’s displeased to hear that Elrond thinks himself in any position to judge. Thranduil can easily surmise who this ‘Lindir’ is, and he retorts icily, “I was far from cruel. If anything, it was highly inappropriate for him to approach me at all. My response was fair.”

Elrond appears highly unimpressed. Thranduil couldn’t care less, and he pointedly turns to his salad, effectively ending the conversation. Elrond can be infuriatingly condescending at times, but his advanced years—which he looks—hardly give him more wisdom than a true _king_. Thranduil eats in quiet bitterness until Elrond casually asks, “May I see your soul mark again?” 

Thranduil glances sideways. Elrond looks sincere, though he always does—he has no humour in him. Only because Thranduil’s soul mark happens to be a work of true art and certainly worth showing off, he acquiesces. Relinquishing his fork, he leans back in his chair and draws his sleeve up. Then he holds out his forearm for Elrond to view, elaborately painted from wrist to elbow, in elegant, sweeping lines and little swirls, intricate dots and patterns like the wings of butterflies. Thranduil’s seen his fair share of marks over the years—even Elrond’s anticlimactic pattern—and knows that his is far larger than most, handsome and ornate enough to suit its master. He’s always been proud of it. 

Elrond eyes it quietly, tracing each line as though double-checking. Thranduil drawls idly, “Is this the true reason for your visit, then? You have lost too many nights of sleep wishing you could paint such beauty on your own skin?”

He doesn’t expect Elrond to rise to the bait, but he is surprised when Elrond admits, “It is beautiful. ...And I have seen it before.”

“Of course you have,” Thranduil snorts, “I showed it to you when last I visited your realm, and surely you will have committed such a masterpiece to memory.”

Elrond doesn’t answer that. He merely continues to stare, then finally lifts his gaze, nodding curtly. Thranduil brushes down his white sleeve again. As Elrond’s yet to offer explanation for the request, Thranduil muses, “Well? Have Círdan or Mithrandir found the lady of my dreams? Or even a lord, perhaps?”

Elrond doesn’t answer. Through Thranduil made the comment flippantly, a small part of him, one he wouldn’t speak of in any company, does feel a spark of disappointment. It isn’t as though he couldn’t use the discovery of a soulmate. For all his adoring subjects, he’s still spent too many years _alone_.

But that’s his lot, the one of a king, and he was already blessed with Legolas, a being he can wholly _love_ , if not in the same way. Some elves take ages to find their true partner. Elrond, Thranduil is quite convinced, will eventually sail utterly alone.

As Thranduil and Elrond eat in silence, the minstrels filter into the hall to signal the second course—Thranduil takes a sip of wine to cleanse his palette.

* * *

Busy stewing with his own thoughts and picking at his cake, it isn’t until the third course that Thranduil’s bored gaze finally strays to the musicians. The first two are his own—he recognized them in his peripherals upon their entrance, and they stand slightly in front of the others, in the center of the hall, swaying to the lilting rhythm of their flutes. The minstrels seated behind them bear enormous harps, and these Thranduil thinks from Imladris. The one on the far left gives him pause.

It’s the elf from earlier. _Lindir_ , Thranduil recalls, whom must be close to Elrond indeed, to garner such protective scolding. The music Lindir plays is lost amongst the others, but when Thranduil focuses in, his eyes fall naturally to the dance of Lindir’s slender fingers along each crystalline string. Watching them, Thranduil can follow the thread they play, the separate notes clear amongst the greater melody. They’re fragile, as soft as the minstrel himself, but alluring in their grace. Lindir’s face mirrors his music, first lost in the awe of one crescendo, then held fast amidst a drawn allegro, dipping sadly into a wavering end. Thranduil, to his horror, finds himself enjoying it.

He draws himself back physically, turning to Elrond and sharing, “Your minstrels are dreadfully plain.” Elrond doesn’t answer, doesn’t even turn to him, so, with an air of frustration, Thranduil tries a different topic. “What of this soul mark business you spoke of earlier? You have not yet given me a reason to see it.”

“Is its beauty not enough?” Elrond dryly answers, finally turning to meet Thranduil’s eye, which now flares—he doesn’t appreciate the sarcasm. He knows he must’ve struck a nerve somewhere; Elrond is rarely so glib. After a short stint of them holding one another’s gazes a tad more intensely than is comfortable, Elrond tells him, “No one has found the lady of your dreams. Or the lord. But I _have_ found the servant. It is unfortunate that you already unwittingly rejected him.”

For a moment, Thranduil doesn’t understand. Then a pit falls into his stomach, and he can feel the colour slowly siphoning out of his face. He murmurs, disbelieving, “Lindir...”

“Bears the same mark,” Elrond finishes, confirming all of Thranduil’s fears. “We had a particularly warm summer this year, and I urged Lindir to roll up his sleeves despite his immaculate sense of propriety. When I saw the mark concealed under it, I thought it time we paid you a visit. Although now I cannot imagine why I ever thought it would be a good idea to doom my lovely assistance to such an old fool.”

For once, Thranduil’s too shocked to even splutter at the insult. He doesn’t dare turn towards the playing minstrels. He stares at Elrond in incredulity, then mutters, “But... he is too plain. And he is low-born...”

“And you are a high born beast, doomed to loneliness by your own attitude.” 

Thranduil’s never been spoken to like that in all his life. It tells him just how highly Elrond must think of this Lindir, and yet it doesn’t matter in the slightest. He feels numb.

Elrond finishes his wine, then excuses himself, rising from the head table and wandering down to where the minstrels have just finished.

Thranduil waves Galion to refill his glass, right to the very top.

* * *

Naturally, he has trouble sleeping. He tries to put it from his mind—there’s no need for this discovery to ever get out, let alone to consume him. Surely Elrond will have the good grace not to tell a soul. And Thranduil need never do a thing about it.

Except that now that he’s seen his soulmate, he finds the image difficult to forget. When he closes his eyes, Lindir’s soft face fills his vision, eyes demurely lowered and hands dedicated to the harp. Thranduil can still hear that melody in his head, that single chord, devoid of all the others, just this one, lone minstrel strumming strife deep into Thranduil’s being.

With a growl, he rises again from bed. The candle at his nightstand is still flickering, and it’s enough to see the emerald dressing gown tossed over the chair at his desk. He finger-combs back his hair as he comes to it, then dresses himself anew, fluffing out his hair and wondering if he should fetch his crown. He doesn’t usually wear it when he isn’t fully dressed, though he rarely leaves his quarters in anything less. This is one of those special occasions where sending a servant won’t do—he needs to move. Perhaps a brisk walk in the cold night air will clear his mind. Somehow, he doubts it.

He tries anyway, slipping out of his chambers and ignoring the two guards perpetually posted there. One moves with him as he goes, but she keeps at a respectful distance, saving him of the chore of having to explain himself. He doesn’t need to carry a candle, so he doesn’t; the natural light hits every hall, spilling through tall windows and reaching columns. Thranduil moves swiftly downwards, winding towards the kitchens. His first instinct was to grab a glass of water, but now he thinks he needs more wine.

He has to pass the dining hall on the way, and he isn’t surprised to see servants still moving busily about the area. A blond bows as she passes, carrying a basket full of used dishes, and then he spots a brunet scrubbing at the floor. He walks a few paces further before he stops. He hardly even looked, but he _knows_ who the elf is. He couldn’t explain how. But he’s sure of it, and he turns to check—Lindir is avidly watching the damp rag as he drags it across Thranduil’s floor. Thranduil thinks he must’ve felt the same pang Thranduil did, and now he’s deliberately avoiding Thranduil’s eyes. 

He stiffens when Thranduil orders, “Come.” Lindir’s head shoots up, eyes wide. They do, Thranduil will concede, have a certain brightness to them. Thranduil keeps his face deadly stern and is privately relieved that, at the moment, no one else is close enough to hear it—even Thranduil’s guard stopped when he did, still halfway across the corridor.

Lindir hesitantly rises, leaving his rag and bucket. Thranduil spares a moment of thought as to why one of Elrond’s staff would be aiding his own. Then he wonders if Lindir could’ve possibly asked for it, if he could be so pedantic as to find menial labour diverting. The idea is as irksome as Thranduil’s staff invoking guests to do their job, however low ranking those guests might be, and he dismisses it.

He turns and walks swiftly down the corridor, intrinsically knowing that Lindir is following him. At the first doorway, Thranduil turns, then again, away from any witnesses. Lindir looks up at him, and Thranduil doesn’t think, just reaches out, grabbing Lindir’s wrist with a sudden fierceness. Lindir’s breath catches as Thranduil wrenches him forward and shoves down his sleeve. Thranduil pulls Lindir’s trim forearm taut, and Lindir whimpers in the vice-like grip but doesn’t try to move.

Though he knows the image off by heart, Thranduil holds his own arm against Lindir’s. He eyes every line, every curve, every stray dot and open space. The marks are identical. 

The gorgeous, grand painting Thranduil always thought so lordly now stretches full across the body of a servant. Thranduil can feel Lindir’s heartbeat racing beneath his thumb. He realizes abruptly that his own heart is beating just as fast. Lindir’s skin is wondrously _warm_ and exquisitely soft. 

Thranduil traitorously, inexplicably _wants him_. 

Thranduil jerks his arm away while Lindir is still staring in awe at their matching sets. Lindir practically jumps when that trance is broken. He looks, in complete contrast to Thranduil, wholly innocent, young and fresh in ways that Thranduil can scarcely remember. It’s obvious to look at him that Lindir’s never known anything else. He’s never seen battle, never worn any scars. He drops his head in simple submission and murmurs, “I am sorry.”

Thranduil is still too stunned to reply. His sleeve has fallen back over his arm, but Lindir isn’t looking there, just at his feet, and with a deep breath, Lindir suddenly bursts, “I will tell no one, your grace, I promise. Obviously, it... was a mistake to come here. I will never trouble you again.” And he turns on his heel, just like that, taking one step back the way they came.

Thranduil slams a hand against the wall in front of him, cutting off his path. Lindir looks at him in surprise and, perhaps, _fear_. It pains Thranduil to see that. He never wants his subjects to fear him. _Respect_ him, yes, but that’s a different thing. Or perhaps Lindir is only scared of this secret they’ve discovered, this doom upon both of them. He must know he isn’t worthy.

He won’t meet Thranduil’s gaze. As soon as Thranduil tries to capture it, Lindir looks aside, all but trembling. Thranduil tries again, moving to where it is, but Lindir merely looks away again. Thranduil’s annoyance mounts with every failed attempt. He wants to shoo Lindir from his realm, back into the meager life of an Imladris servant, and yet he wants to peer into the eyes of his soulmate and discover all the hidden feelings he’s longed for for centuries. Lindir refuses to oblige him.

He leans forward, ready to catch Lindir’s face and hold it steady for him, but Lindir winces back. Thranduil freezes in his steps, body chilled.

And Elrond’s words come back to him. He rejected Lindir first. At the most basic level. He did this to himself.

He steps bitterly aside and lets Lindir flee the room.


	2. Sapling

The sun wakes him, and he rolls onto his side to ignore it, burrowing under the blankets and figuring it’ll be easier here than it is at home; there’s only one small window in his tiny room, nothing like the wide, sweeping balcony of his quarters in Imladris. He can’t drift back to sleep for other reasons. Lindir’s cheeks feel stiff, crusted with dried tears, and his pillow’s still damp. He spent the better part of last night crying into it, once he’d returned from scrubbing those tears into the dining hall’s floors. Normally, work helps him clear his mind. Last night, nothing could achieve that.

He doesn’t imagine his stay here will go much smoother. It was a mistake, he now knows, to come at all. A part of him feels foolish for ever believing there was any hope. When Elrond first told him that the other half of his soul lay with the renowned king of the Woodland Realm, Lindir’s reaction should’ve been sorrow instead of shock. He was honoured, of course, but that feeling’s done him little good: he can never have one so far above himself, and now he’s doomed to know that for it, he’ll have _no one._

At least, he reminds himself as he lowers the blankets to again face the sun, a perfect match hasn’t been snatched from him. He feels guilty for even thinking that. But as handsome as Thranduil is, as tall and beautiful and wholly awe-inspiring, his curt dismissal made it easier to walk away. Lindir might still _lust_ after him—most probably do—but there’s little use in other forms of longing. Thranduil is hardly the kind, gentle lover that Lindir imagines his own Lord Elrond would be. 

With a fretful sigh, Lindir forces himself to rise. There’s no sense dying in bed whilst he still has a lord to serve. And while he’s here, he can at least be of use to the king, even in such minor ways as scrubbing floors. He won’t bother Thranduil again, of course, and he wishes he never had, but the Woodland keep is vast, and there are plenty of places to go unnoticed. He doesn’t want to face that glare again.

But, he reminds himself, it’s his own fault. He presumed to speak above his station. He drifts to the dresser to take the brush he brought with him, and he settles down to detangle his unruly hair. Even unseen, he has a duty to be presentable. He won’t tarnish Thranduil’s halls with anything less—even if, no matter how much effort he puts in to preparing himself, he’ll still be only a plain, ugly thing amidst the princely wood elves. At least he can be a tidy duckling, if a duckling amongst swans he must be.

His eyes bear dark circles under them that mock him in the mirror. Lindir shuts his eyes to ignore them, hoping more tears won’t follow.

* * *

To Lindir’s great distress, he’s dismissed from his duties—Elrond urges him to _explore_ , to discover and enjoy the Woodland Realm, in case this is the only time he ever sees it. Lindir thinks he would prefer to see it on his knees with a washcloth in hand, but he doesn’t dare defy his lord, and he acquiesces. He drifts aimlessly about the towering halls, a small harp clutched in his hands—at least, perhaps, this trip might inspire snippets for a song.

He will admit the Woodland Realm is beautiful, every bit as artful as its king. The halls themselves are nothing like Imladris, carved from the very earth and slipping seamlessly from stone to wood to sheer ground without pause for metal. He winds along the higher levels, until at last he finds a seat that might suit him—a plain, wooden bench set out on a balcony. Only a few meters long and two or three across, the veranda towers above the forest, peering over an endless sea of green. Black, velvety butterflies dance in wide patches not far away, and Lindir finds himself drawn to them, to the waist-high railing of wrought wood. Those, he thinks, might be worth a melody.

It’s better, at least, than the tune that lilts in his heart, full of grief and loss. But he promised himself he’d pay no more heed to the condemnation of his mark, and so he takes a seat on the bench and puts his voice to another use. He idly strums a newly forming tune and hums beneath his breath, whispering all the ways he could describe such exotic creatures. When one strays close enough, Lindir sees just how much larger than the valley butterflies it truly is, larger indeed than life, patterned in intricate detail and staggering in its unique splendor, not, again he thinks, unlike its king.

Lindir’s fingers hesitate, his voice falling flat. There seems to be little he can do to escape his yearning. He has half a mind to return to Elrond and beg to be allowed to work—his mind is no good when free. 

“May I join you?” a deep voice drawls, and Lindir turns to glance up; the king stands beside the bench.

Lindir tenses instantly. Shock freezes him over, a pit falling deep into his stomach. He can feel his face flushing from proximity alone, and it takes a moment for the words to sink in— _permission to sit_. Lindir doesn’t understand. His eyebrows knit together, and he ducks his head in a deferential bow. Thranduil seems to take it for a nod; he steps around to claim what’s left of the bench, so close that their knees are almost brushing, and Lindir’s breath hitches in his throat. He didn’t think he’d see Thranduil again until they left, Thranduil bidding goodbye to Elrond and Lindir somewhere in the background amidst the other servants. That might have been easier.

Because now Lindir can feel again the _want_ that Thranduil stirs inside him, filling his senses in a rush of traitorous desire. Thranduil even _smells_ good, like a pleasant mix of pine and lavender, and something more raw, something uniquely _him_. Lindir shudders just to smell it and refuses to meet Thranduil’s eye, keeping his head bowed, unworthy as he is to be anything but reverent in the presence of a king. 

“You did not need to stop on my account,” Thranduil muses. Lindir jolts—he’d forgotten his song entirely. Forgotten everything. When it’s clear Lindir can do nothing but bear it, certainly won’t venture to speak or move unasked, Thranduil bids quietly, “Please, continue.”

Lindir sucks in a breath. He moves to obey on instinct. But his fingers only drift once across the strings—he has no melody now. He has nothing. He struggles to even remember what he sang of before Thranduil overshadowed all else, and at last his gaze catches on the swarm of butterflies again. They seem closer now than before, but that makes it no easier. They can’t possibly provide inspiration when the greatest muse that ever lived sits beside him.

Lindir strums his harp again, parts his lips, and forces himself to hum a familiar tune, the first one that comes to mind. But it comes out differently than he’s ever played it before: more fanciful, more pleasurable. He knows in his heart that the other half of his soul is influencing him, whether he tries to allow it or not. He can turn himself from Thranduil all he likes, but Thranduil gives his art new meaning. 

He lets the music come as it will. He lets the words begin to fall from his lips, though he can’t hear them, only the steady thrum of Thranduil’s breath and the light wind in Thranduil’s hair. He wonders vaguely if he’s even managing the right words, or if he’s filling in new joy in the space of once-sorrowful song. But he can’t seem to focus enough to know. For those few, strangely blissful minutes, he merely plays and basks in the odd sensation of being _complete_.

And then the song ends, dying slowly out, and Lindir’s voice falters. He realizes then, on the last note of his harp, that somewhere along the line, he’s lifted his eyes to Thranduil’s. And gazing into Thranduil’s handsome face has blurred all else away. He feels foolish and quickly wrenches his gaze aside.

Into the silence, Thranduil slowly tells him, “I... apologize.”

Lindir stiffens, looking back again, seized in surprise. Thranduil wears a thin frown and continues, “I may have been... a tad hasty last night. I now ask your forgiveness.”

For a split second, Lindir wonders if he’s still dreaming, if his song took him away, and he’s only imaging this. But all his sense tell him this is _real_ , and after a long moment, Lindir murmurs, “It is no trouble, my king.” It _was_ trouble, but he couldn’t say that to a lord, even if that lord weren’t obscenely attractive and so close that Lindir nearly trembles. The apology sounds sincere, and though Lindir never expected nor felt he deserved it, it warms him nonetheless. 

A pleasant smile drifts across Thranduil’s face, blooming like the ripe woods, and he adds, “You play beautifully, by the way.”

Lindir’s cheeks flush entirely red. Now he really must be trembling. There’s something left in Thranduil’s eyes—something almost sad, troubled, but Lindir doesn’t dare press at it. He only breathes, “Thank you.”

Thranduil nods and rises abruptly, though gracefully, to his feet. He stands before Lindir, tall and clad in royal silver, his crown high and wondrous, laden with fresh flowers and the look of autumn. He extends one hand, open to Lindir, and Lindir, drawn beyond his nerves, tentatively takes it.

* * *

They stroll through the corridors together, Lindir sure that this will shatter at any moment. But it never does. They walk side beside, as though they’re _equals_ , and when Lindir tries to slow, Thranduil seems to hesitate, then falls back to match his strides. Thranduil looks slightly _bothered_ each time, but it grows less so as they go on, and eventually, the shadow leaves his eyes. 

He asks many questions. Lindir tries his best to answer, though all are simply of _him_ , and as he tries to explain, “My life is dreadfully boring, especially compared to a king, your highness.”

But Thranduil just waves a dismissive hand and presses, “And what do you do aside from your attendance of Lord Elrond? Surely there are other things.”

“I am...” but Lindir pauses, wondering if he’s really _anything_ ; he’s no one of note. Then he sees the curious flicker in Thranduil’s gaze and admits, “I am a minstrel, my king.”

Thranduil nods, having seen this already, and Lindir wishes desperately that he had something else to add. But he truly doesn’t. His life is _simple_ , and he’s always been content that way. He accepted what he had and longed for nothing more. Except, perhaps, someone to share it with.

It’s hard to believe that Thranduil’s that someone. But as they move more and more together, Lindir can _feel_ it. He’s pulled towards Thranduil, like a stream towards the sea, and he realizes, on the tenth time he murmurs ‘my lord,’ that Thranduil, in a way, is the perfect complement to his simplicity. He never wanted to be a warrior, or a traveler, or anyone of great note. He wants only to _serve_ , and there’s no one more grand, none more worthy of servitude, than the king of the Woodland Realm. Thranduil _commands_ respect, and Lindir delivers it endlessly. 

Lindir still sighs, after a quiet stint of Thranduil’s musing, “If it helps, my king... I am just as surprised as you to find my soul mate a _king_. And such a handsome one at that.” But he quickly shuts his mouth afterwards, having said too much. He hangs his head, though he can still see Thranduil’s smile in his peripherals. 

Then Thranduil tenderly admits, “You have your own certain charm, I think. ...Now, are you hungry?”

* * *

They share a private meal in Thranduil’s quarters, delivered by servants that Lindir should be amongst. It feels strange to have another set his dishes down for him, to have his glass filled, but fortunately, they don’t linger behind his chair as Lindir often does with his lord. Thranduil sends them away with a wave of his hand, and they slip through the wide oak doors that section off Thranduil’s sweeping quarters. 

They’re as grandiose and marvelous as all else about him. The tall ceiling is woven of seemingly living branches, the wooden walls curved and rounded. A bed rests against the wall, adorned in thick crimson sheets and a delicate canopy, while mahogany dressers and tables line other areas. A sweeping balcony supplies the light, the clear doors currently thrown open. Not far from them, Lindir and Thranduil sit across from one another, speaking softly and dragging fruit through chocolate. 

Eventually, that’s all that’s left of the three courses brought to them, and Lindir’s glass of sparkling champagne is almost empty. He hasn’t yet refilled it, though Thranduil’s gone through three glasses, and after Lindir’s final sip, Thranduil plucks one of the open bottles from the center o the table and holds it over Lindir’s cup. Lindir holds his dutifully forward and allows it to be filled, stoically saying nothing of having a _king_ wait on him. 

The entire evening is surreal. But it’s magical, and Lindir would trade it for nothing, even if this is the only one he ever receives. He keeps waiting for the axe to fall, for some explanation of this kindness, but Thranduil is demure and mysterious. As he finishes the last of his strawberries, Lindir follows the line of his lips, closing tight around the red skin and sinking in to secrete clear juice along his luscious mouth. The sight is captivating, though Lindir’s head quickly races to filthy places over it, and he forces himself to look away. He’s had to do that plenty throughout the meal. Thranduil’s mouth is skilled in all things, and Lindir knows he could lose himself in it. 

He sucks his final grape into his mouth, and Thranduil sinks back into his chair with a languid sigh. He lounges beautifully, like he was made for luxury, and all the rest of the world is built only for his amusement. He surveys Lindir quietly, then gestures about and bids, “Would you care to look around?”

Lindir nods, for who wouldn’t want to survey the bedchambers of a king? He glances down to the thick rug underfoot, embroidered in the most exquisite pattern of interwoven lines and circles, silver and gold on many different shades of forest green. It isn’t until Thranduil pointedly lifts a brow that Lindir rises from his chair, reverently drifting about to take in all around him.

This is where his soul mate sleeps. He eyes the bed first, of course, but doesn’t move towards it—he has no wish to presume, even though he’d loved to be thrown across it and ravished. Instead, he moves towards the full-length mirror impeded in one wall, framed in rose gold with many glimmering crystals. But when Lindir gets close enough to see only his own reflection, it reminds him too much of how unworthy he looks for the one who usually stands before this very mirror, and he turns away. He moves next for the balcony.

It’s grown later than he realized. The stars are out, bright and wondrous—they feel closer than they ever have. Lindir takes a final step towards them, out into the open air, but hesitates before he can reach the silver railing.

He shies away from the sprawling view of the forest below, and instead returns his gaze to Thranduil, every bit as _perfect_ as the panorama before him. A new song hums in Lindir’s chest, inspired by the way the moonlight halos Thranduil’s pale skin. It takes great effort to let that go and force himself to say, “I... I should attend to my lord.”

“He is being served,” Thranduil counters idly, and of course, Lindir should know that—he remembers now that Elrond dismissed him for the length of their stay. Still, it doesn’t feel right for his evenings to be his. Gazing thoughtfully at Lindir’s slender form, Thranduil slowly asks, “Would you be interested in attending another lord?” 

Lindir’s breath catches. His return is nearly a whisper: “My king...?”

Thranduil rises with such elegance. He drifts forward like a swan gliding through water. By the time he reaches Lindir, Lindir’s whole body is on _fire_. He can’t imagine Thranduil wants _that_ of him, but he hopes so anyway. He burns for it. He stands, shaking, as Thranduil gently cups a hand beneath Lindir’s chin, drawing it up. Then Thranduil brushes a chaste, feather-soft kiss across Lindir’s lips. Lindir’s entire being seizes with _want_.

Thranduil only draws a centimeter away. Lindir can still feel his breath, and can see his clear eyes through half-lidded, heavily-dilated pupils. Then sheer instinct takes over, throwing all of Lindir’s fears to the wind, and Lindir’s eyes close properly, his toes lifting up to finish the distance. He presses them together, and Thranduil surges back, tongue slipping easily between Lindir’s swiftly parting lips. 

That next kiss is _fierce_. Thranduil is an animal, one with skill that consumes Lindir in a heartbeat, gathers him close and crushes him in—he’s held tightly against Thranduil’s broad chest and drowns in how good it is. How good Thranduil _feels_. There’s no way to describe the taste, for it’s like nothing Lindir’s ever had before, only the sort of exotic spell that he’s spent his whole life searching for. Thranduil’s tongue in his mouth is powerful, commanding, and Lindir joyously submits to it. He lets Thranduil guide the kiss, lets Thranduil stroke his teeth, his walls, curl around his tongue and coax him into one change of position after another, one kiss becoming ten, twenty. Lindir couldn’t stop if he wanted to. He finds himself clinging tightly to Thranduil’s expensive robes. His hips gyrate pitifully forward, grinding against Thranduil’s sturdy form. He’s never felt such lust. He’s never felt so alive. 

He wants to go to Thranduil’s bed. He desperately hopes he’ll be guided there. He wants to follow Thranduil everywhere, to serve all of Thranduil’s needs, wants, whatever his king asks of him. He understands why the Valar cursed him with his mark: to enlighten him to _this_ , the one person who could utterly complete him.

Yet when they part again, Thranduil holds him at bay. Thranduil withdraws to clutch each of Lindir’s biceps, keeping Lindir from connecting their mouths again, though Thranduil looks equally dizzy, heavy eyes on Lindir’s lips and cheeks stained an enticing shade of pink. There’s _hunger_ in his gaze, and Lindir would fulfill it.

But Thranduil murmurs, “You should leave for tonight,” and Lindir’s heart sinks in his chest.

He wants to argue. Perhaps, if Thranduil were anything less, even a prince, Lindir might—his desire is that strong. But he doesn’t have that luxury. He knows he couldn’t possibly defy Thranduil in any way, and he knows he has to no right to stay. He knew, from the moment Thranduil first sat beside him during his song, that they couldn’t be.

He withdraws. He nods his head in acquiescence and keeps it bowed. He turns and leaves towards the door, trembling the entire way, though he can’t seem to make his fingers clasp around the handle.

Finally, he turns back again to dare to say, “I would be honoured to please you, my king, even if you did not wish to look at me.” That’s the only thing he can offer. He still implores Thranduil to take it.

But Thranduil quietly replies, “I will not use my soul mate like my other consorts. Leave now.”

Lost but grasping thin hope anew, Lindir obeys.


	3. Beginning

Thranduil wakes to the quiet sunlight and the far-off songs of birds, nowhere near as beautiful as the melody that faded with his dream. He knows exactly whose voice was singing it, and it only compounds his loneliness.

He _is_ lonely. He knows that, stretched out in his grand bend, buried beneath the thick covers and knowing perfectly well that he could have any he wished come serve him. He’s had too many lovers to count on this very mattress, but none _completed_ him. The bed feels horribly empty, and when he closes his eyes, he imagines what it would be like to find Lindir sharing his pillow.

Lindir’s only a servant, he tells himself, and not even one of the warrior-trained ones of his halls, but the soft, useless kind Imladris breads. He knows just from looking into Lindir’s large eyes that he has little experience, that he wouldn’t know at all what to do with a king like Thranduil in bed. But he could learn, Thranduil knows, and there’s no better teacher than the king of the Woodland Realm. 

He stretches out his arm and wonders how much space Lindir would take—probably very little. Lindir is light and slender; he’d roll into Thranduil’s weight and nuzzle into Thranduil’s side, curl cutely around him, maybe without the plain servant robes but in a silken nightgown, or better yet, _nothing_. In the early morning sun, his creamy skin might be a tempting treat to wake to. He smells pretty enough. His voice would be better than the birds. And he’d feel _right_ , nestled against Thranduil, smiling sleepily up after the remnants of a dream.

Thranduil wants to throw one of his pillows at the wall. He would, if he were still a child, prone to living out his temper. But he’s old enough to reel that frustration in. He knows, to his lessening horror, that he could grow to love Lindir. 

And he hates that he was so cruel at first. He stood in the way of his own happiness and hurt the bearer of his soul. Elrond was right to call him a fool.

He rises from his empty bed to ready himself. He forgoes calling servants and wonders what it would be like, in a better future, to have Lindir there before him, helping him dress between adoring kisses and gentle caresses. 

For now, he does it himself; he knows he has to find Elrond before the Imladris delegation leaves.

* * *

Finely dressed and fitted with his crown, Thranduil strolls swiftly through his halls, ignoring all those he passes—his purpose is clear. And when he makes up his mind to do something, there’s very little that can stop him.

His steps only falter when he passes one of the supply rooms, and the lilting voice that whispers out of it stops him in his tracks.

He recognizes that voice. It goes beyond his ears; it speaks to his heart, coils inside him and fills him with its message. The words are too muffled now to make out, but the song itself sounds sad. For a moment, Thranduil considers storming inside, gathering Lindir up in his arms, and doing whatever he can to make that music happier. He wants that. He thinks, for all his stubborn arrogance, that he could make Lindir happy.

He hasn’t made anyone _truly_ happy in a long time. Too long. He’s been selfish, and he knows that. For that one sweet servant that would take everything he gave, good or bad, he’s sure he could do better.

He continues on his path; no matter what he might’ve said before, he won’t let Elrond take away his soul mate now.

* * *

When Thranduil suggests they sit down to talk, Elrond has the absolute gal to answer, “I thought you might.” He leaves first towards the council room, and Thranduil scowls at the back of his head but still follows.

The guards remain outside, and Thranduil calls no one else, but he and Elrond take their seats at the long oak table as though entering another political negotiation. In a way, it feels like that. The room isn’t particularly large for Thranduil’s halls, but it is dark despite the candles adorning the walls, and it feels grave. Elrond sits tall across from him, waiting, and Thranduil is the first to speak.

He says in no uncertain terms, “You will leave Lindir here.” There really shouldn’t be any negotiating at all; that’s the simple fact. But he isn’t surprised when Elrond lifts a challenging brow.

Elrond answers just as firmly, “I will do no such thing, unless I am given certain assurances that you will treat him well.”

Thranduil’s face twitches somewhere between a wince and a glare. He finds the notion that he would mistreat _any_ in his realm appalling. But he forces himself not to rise to the bait—showing anger here won’t help his case. He replies tightly, “I will treat my soul mate accordingly.”

“So you admit what he is,” Elrond counters, as though it were deniable. Thranduil simply nods. Elrond spends a long moment looking hard into Thranduil’s eyes, which Thranduil meets with equal intensity. Finally, Elrond slowly admits, “I am unsure, to be perfectly honest, that that is wise. I am certain you mean well, Thranduil. But you are... forgive me, but you can be a handful at times. And Lindir is a very sweet, loving soul.”

Thranduil grits his teeth together. The only reason he forgives Elrond is because Elrond brought him his soul mate in the first place, and he knows now he doesn’t regret that. He isn’t quite sure how to proceed, given that it’s really none of Elrond’s business how Thranduil treats either his lovers or servants, but he opens his mouth to try.

He’s cut off by a quiet knock against the door. Both Elrond and Thranduil look around, startled, and without waiting for an answer, the door creaks open. Lindir pokes inside, flushed red across his delicate features, looking every bit the frail flower Elrond seems to think him. But he comes forward with at least some show of courage, where he sucks in a breath and bows before the table. As he rises, he casts his eyes to the floor and murmurs, “I am deeply sorry for interrupting, my lords. But... I had thought you might speak of me.”

“We are,” Elrond informs him, frowning curiously up. Lindir nods in understanding. Elrond doesn’t have to explain.

Lindir picks absently at his sleeve, then mumbles, “I... I would like to stay, if I may, my lord.” Another quick breath, and Lindir looks up to Elrond, rushing, “It is no slight on you, my lord, for I have loved serving you all these years. And it pains me deeply to part from your side and from Imladris, I assure you, but... but I... I would like to explore this. If the king permitted it.” He sneaks a humble look at Thranduil, acting very much as though he expects to be sent away.

Thranduil merely meets Lindir’s gaze. It seems to loosen Lindir, who bows his head again but relaxes somewhat. Then Thranduil looks to Elrond and resists the urge to smirk. 

Elrond informs them both, “I will allow it. ...If that king apologizes for his initial rudeness to you.”

Flushing scarlet, Thranduil hisses, “I have already done that!” And then he immediately regrets the admission—no one was supposed to know of that.

But a faint smile twitches at the corner of Lindir’s plush lips, and that makes the embarrassment worth it. He murmurs to Elrond, “He did, my lord.”

“And did you accept it?”

Lindir bites his bottom lip and nods, enthusiastically enough that even Elrond must have no choice but to accept that. It helps Thranduil’s frown dissipate; he feels strangely vindicated, and Lindir’s all the more endearing for it. 

Lindir is a lovely creature, Thranduil’s decided, and he promises with finality, “I will treat him well.”

“See that you do,” Elrond sighs. “For my doors are always open, and the next time your soul mate walks through them, I expect to find him smiling.”

* * *

They watch Elrond depart together, in the grand hall where they first met, Elrond’s horse trailing over the bridge and his party waiting at the foot of the woods. Thranduil remains mostly out of courtesy, but he can feel Lindir stoic at his side, watching a former life disappear into the trees. It isn’t until Elrond’s entirely lost from view that Thranduil lifts his hand, and servants draw the tall doors shut. The natural light dies into the fire of his halls, and Lindir lets out a long breath. Thranduil glances down, and Lindir’s eyes seem to filter from far away into the here and now, where he gives Thranduil a tentative smile. Thranduil mirrors it as warmly as he can.

He offers his hand, and Lindir hesitates but takes it. Thranduil closes around Lindir’s trim fingers and feels the familiar rush of warmth and softness that is _his soul mate._ He’s felt few things so comforting. The tips of Lindir’s fingers wrap carefully between his own, and Thranduil gives Lindir a reassuring squeeze that fans the anticipation in Lindir’s eyes: it should be all up from here.

Thranduil turns to sweep back into his halls, and Lindir follows, matching his pace and staying tight at his side. Lindir’s eyes lower for everyone they pass, something Thranduil hopes he’ll come to conquer; his demure charms are alluring, but there’s no need for such submission now. He asks, once they’re a second floor up and alone down a corridor, “May I have permission to speak freely, my king?”

“My soul mate always has such permission,” Thranduil answers, hoping Lindir listens—he doesn’t want to plow over entirely Lindir again and miss something important. Lindir looks away, a pink blush across his cheeks.

He murmurs, “What will you tell your subjects?” The very same question might’ve occurred to Thranduil when Elrond first brought him this, but that was before he held Lindir in his arms, and even if they haven’t yet shared all he plans to, it’s enough to know.

He replies, “That I have found my soul mate. None will deny me that choice, and if they ask further, you merely need to show them your arm.” Lindir nods, and his steps seem strangely lighter, like a Maiar is floating at Thranduil’s side, tethered to the earth only by Thranduil’s hand. 

Then Lindir asks, “And where are we going now?”

“To find you better quarters,” Thranduil explains, looking around to catch Lindir’s eyes and hold that beautiful gaze in his. “Ones as grand as my own, and not far, for some day, I hope to have you stay with me.”

Lindir parts his mouth, but he seems to be speechless, and he falters; Thranduil has to tug him along. Then Thranduil has to stop altogether when he finds Lindir glued to his side, wrapping trembling arms around him and hugging him close. Thranduil returns the warm embrace and knows that, for all his doubts and pride, this is the start of something _wonderful._


End file.
